Set the Fire to the Third Bar
by rcaqua
Summary: When she first learned about the different forms of time travel, Hermione never dreamed she would travel through time to change history, and she definitely didn't think she would use blood magic to do it. But war calls for desperate measures.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** Yay! Another story (I know what you're all thinking -- "Finish the other ones, first!")! Well, I will finish my other stories. Well, all the ones that I've said I will anyway. And, just in case there are any fans of _Once Upon A Time _reading, Chapter Three is in the works right now. Don't worry. That said, I hope everyone enjoys this one, as well. I know this chapter is short, but...aren't all of my first chapters?

**Please Review!**

_

* * *

Their words mostly noises_

_Ghosts with just voices_

_Your words in my memory_

_Are like music to me _

Snow Patrol, _Set the Fire to the Third Bar_

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Set the Fire to the Third Bar**

Hermione Granger couldn't feel anything anymore. 

Oh, she had told herself that before. After Dumbledore's funeral; when she found Percy Weasley's body, so mangled that only the note pinned to his cloak identified him ("Merry Christmas," it had read); the day Harry left and never came back.

Now, she realized that she had never truly meant it. She had never known the terrible feeling of cold etched deep into every pore of her body, even though the air around her was warm.

It was better to be numb, though. Nothing could get to her now; it all had to slide of the surface. The same way the tears slid off her skin and landed on the bodies below her. She was safe in her cold cocoon.

She knelt on the ground and stared at the lifeless figures before her.

_They are nothing_, she told herself. _Not anymore. There is nothing left but flesh, bone, muscle, and blood. That is the only thing I am looking at. _

She didn't believe it, but she kept repeating it to herself anyway, hoping that if she says it enough, it will be true.

"_Practice makes perfect, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said. _

But McGonagall is dead, and clearly practice did not make her perfect at dodging the Death Eaters' curses.

"Flesh, bone, muscle, and blood," Hermione says out loud.

Her voice is toneless, yet somehow the words still achieve a sing-song effect. It is a twisted song she is singing, but she cannot stop.

She fumbles around on the ground for a rock. Really, she reflects, she should use her wand to Summon one, or, at the very least, shed some light in the darkness so she can see. But she knows it would do her no good. Her hands are shaking too badly for a Summoning Charm to help her, and she wouldn't be able to see through her tears, even if there was light.

She doesn't know how long it takes her, but eventually her hand closes around a rock. It is sharp, and she nicks her finger on the edge, but she doesn't mind the pain. At least she knows it will serve her purpose.

The stone is heavy in her hand as she lifts it; she can't quite get her hand around it. It's rough, too, leaving scratches all along the palms of her hands. With a grunt, she brings it down on the throat of the body closest to her, then drops it to the side.

Blood spurts from the wound; still warm, it taunts her.

_If only you were quicker_, it says. _If only you had thought of the date. You should have known this would happen. Don't you remember what happened to the Weasleys? _

She shakes her head as if it would rid her of the reproachful thoughts.

_I can fix this. _

But what if she can't? She is running out of time. He would have set wards around the house – _there is no house anymore _– to alert Him when she arrived. He was probably on his way now.

Her breath quickened. She isn't nearly as unfeeling as she would like, because she is still afraid. That has not changed.

_Yet, _she mentally corrects herself.

A soft breeze blows her hair into her face, recalling her to her task.

She closes her eyes and dips her fingers in the blood, trying not to breathe in the scent of it. Hands still shaking, she traces the rune for Time on the woman's forehead.

"I consecrate this death in the name of Time," she murmured.

She picks the rock up and moves to the other body, giving it the same treatment. Now the blood has started to stain her clothes, and she wonders absently whether a cleaning spell will get it out, or if she'll have to brew a potion.

The mundane train of thought soothes her. It is what enables her to grab the stone and lay on the ground between the two still figures. Another random thought, this one about whether she remembered to tell Mrs. Weasley that she couldn't come to the dinner party, occupies her mind enough to let her grab the rock and drag it across her wrists.

She won't be here much longer, and that thought is comforting. She wishes she could just give up altogether, and simply let herself die. She would like a little peace. But there are still so many people who deserve a chance at a better life, and so many who should have gotten a chance to have any life at all. So she takes a shuddering breath and gasps out:

"I consecrate this life in the name of Time, that all my sins be forgotten, and all my deeds be for naught. That I should flow on the Great River, and change the course of history."

There, she is done. Now all she has to do is wait, and feel the life slip out of her. She still feels cold, and it only intensifies as she thinks of how, only a few hours before, she had been planning to have a happy birthday dinner with her parents, to make up for all the ones she had missed. Then the card had arrived.

"Happy Birthday," it had read.

There was no signature. None was required, she thought as she stared up at the sky.

Hanging above her was the only signature He would ever need. An emerald green mark in the shape of a lightning bolt. The feared mark of the Dark Lord, Harry Potter.

And for the first time that night, as she lay dying between the bodies of her parents, Hermione Granger began to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: **Here's the second chapter! It's a little slow, as is the next one, but necessary in order for things to pick up and flow the way I want them to. Tell me what you think!

** Please Review! **_

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Louder louder  
And we'll run for our lives  
I can hardly speak I understand  
Why you can't raise your voice to say._

- Snow Patrol, _Run_

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**

**Chapter Two**

**Run**

_Cold. _

_Dark._

_Hard. _

_Sharp_.

_Pain._

Hermione woke to find herself half-buried in snow. Already, she could not feel her legs properly, except for the sharp, stinging pains that would shoot through them every few seconds. Groaning loudly, she braced her arms on either side of her and pulled herself out of the snow.

Once she was free, she looked around uncertainly. Where was she?

Under other circumstances, she might have been able to formulate a guess, but she couldn't think properly. Too many thoughts were running through her head, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep them from taking over her.

"_Happy Birthday." Mum and Dad lying on the ground. The blood flowing from her wrists _– it hurt so bad. Someone make it stop – _and the lightning bolt hanging from the sky. "Miss Granger, I have noticed your…interesting choice of reading material." "Hermione, He's here! Run!" _– a pair of arms pushed her out the door (Fred? George?) and locked it behind her – _"You must never, under any circumstance attempt that spell." She smelled smoke. _Was that her house? That pile of brick and ash? _"The consequences are severe." "Time travel requires sacrifice." "Hermione, you must listen to me. If anything should happen –"_ No, nothing would happen. _(But it did.) "You could have joined me." No, she couldn't. Not after what he'd done. _– Harry leaves the Riddle House in silence, and they are all afraid to ask what had happened – _"The Dark Lord is gone!" (Except he wasn't.) "Harry would never do anything like that!" (Except he did.) "And even then the results are unpredictable." "Join me, Hermione." _

"_Join me, Hermione."_

"Stop it!" Hermione screamed into the night.

No one replied.

She collapsed into the snow, hugging her knees and sobbing.

"I can fix it," she told herself through her tears. "I am Hermione Granger. I can fix it. I can fix – I can fix any – I can fix anything."

But she couldn't fix herself enough to stop crying.

Then –

_Snap._

She heard the tree branch snap as someone pushed it out of the way. She tensed, wand at the ready.

She could hear footsteps now, more then one pair. There was the sound of crunching snow and more branches being moved out of the way.

Her eyes turned feral. She was terrified. What if the spell hadn't worked? What if she had merely managed to transport herself to some foreign place? Or, what if _she_ hadn't done anything at all? What if He had caught her? What if she was now a pawn in a twisted new game of his?

This thought was too much for her too bear, and as the two men came into view, she snapped and fired a hex.

"_Reducto_!" she cried, forgetting to cast nonverbally. "_Stupefy!_"

The two bodies hit the snow with a thump. She wasted no time, taking off running.

She didn't know where she was going, but she was to afraid to care. Was He after her? Were his Death Eaters lying in wait for her?

Every shadowy bush or tight copse of trees looked like Harry and His followers ready to spring from the darkness and attack; every snagging tree limb or gnarled root was a hand trying to grab her. Unfortunately, Hermione was not at her most coordinated, and as a result, she tripped a number of times, often scraping her hands or knees on the sides of trees. However, she didn't stop running, even when it seemed like she would die of exhaustion. No matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the fear that someone was after her.

She had no idea how right (and wrong) she was, until she heard the unmistakable _pop!_ that accompanied Apparition.

She screamed instinctively, falling backwards. She had just enough time to see a pair of concerned brown eyes looking down at her before her head collided with a tree trunk.

Then, everything went black.

* * *

To tell the truth, Fabian Prewett hadn't expected to find anything when he Apparated to the small forest. He knew that none of the other Aurors thought so, either, or else he wouldn't have been assigned to search the location. With the uproar that had been occurring at the Ministry when he left, and the rumor floating around the Departments that Dumbledore himself had personally asked Minister Bagnold to order the mission, he knew there was no way the higher-ups would have assigned a likely location to a rookie. They would want the glory for themselves, and besides, there was the constant fear that seemed prevalent among the more experienced Aurors that one of the new recruits would mess something up. Personally, Fabian thought it was more likely that Auror Moody would cause some damage – one of these days, someone was going to go deaf with the words "constant vigilance!" ringing in his or her ears.

With this in mind, then, it was understandable that he was surprised when he found tracks in the snow. At first, he had thought his mind was playing tricks on him, and they were really animal prints. But then he took a closer look, and saw the clear marks left behind by bare feet in the snow; heel and toes pressed firmly down, with a small, faint impression where the arch would be.

Brows knitting together in a frown, Fabian studied the footprints. Whoever had made them had been walking very erratically. The prints were all over the place, cutting extremely close to some nasty looking thorns and trees. He had a feeling that the person was long gone, but it was still his duty to check things out.

Before he moved to follow the tracks, however, he pulled his wand out and cried, "_Expecto Patronum!"_

A sleek silver fox, impossibly large, erupted from the end of his wand. It stared up at him intelligently, cocking its head as if it were waiting for directions. He crouched down in the snow and began to whisper in its ear. When he was finished, the Patronus gave a short nod and took off, running with supernatural speeds until it was nothing more then a silver blot in the distance.

Now confident that his brother, Gideon, would meet him as soon as possible, Fabian set off following the prints. As he walked – almost getting hit in the head twice by a pair of low-hanging branches – Fabian began to have a feeling that he knew where the person was going.

He'd spent some time in these woods before. It was inevitable if you spent time with the Potters, which his family frequently did. He, Gideon, and James had often snuck into these woods to play self-invented games on broomsticks between the trees while their parents talked. Consequently, he knew most of the paths going through the forest; in some cases, he'd even made them himself, using the Reductor Curse to clear branches and other plant lifeout of the way.

This knowledge came in handy, now. If he was right (and he didn't want to think of what would happen if he wasn't), then he was somewhere in the Northeast corner of the forest surrounding the Potter's manor. Luckily, this was the part of the forest that was closest to the house, and therefore the thinnest part. There was only one path – if it could be called that – cutting through the dense layer of undergrowth, and so far, the person he was tracking hadn't veered from it.

_Maybe this won't be so hard_, he thought.

A small smile grew on his face as he walked, and he began to fantasize about finding this mysterious person. His family would be so proud, especially Molly and Gideon. Of course, the others would be, too, but he'd always been the closest to them, even after Molly had to go and get married. Dumbledore would be pleased, too, and that would mean he'd done something good for the Order. Maybe that'd stop Moody from muttering about letting "children" into the organization.

Then he walked into a tree, and decided that maybe the fantasies should be put off until after he'd caught the person.

* * *

Gideon Prewett was tired. He'd just got off an eight-hour shift doing watch around the Auror Training compound, and his partner had been none other then little Henry Dawlish, who had never quite forgiven him for turning the Hufflepuff Common Room red and gold after a particularly smashing defeat in Quidditch. (370 – 0, if he remembered correctly.)

So when the large silver fox walked through his window and padded up to him, Gideon had half a mind to tell it to sod off. Of course, he knew he couldn't do that; he'd swore an oath, to never turn down an offer for help from one of the Order. _His colleagues_, he thought, and felt a momentary swell of pride. It never ceased to amaze him that the Headmaster had thought he was good enough to join the fight against Voldemort – even Fabian had to wait until he'd completed his Auror training.

And speaking of Fabian…

"Oh, all right," he muttered to himself. "Just don't go waking anyone up," he hissed to the fox, taking a quick glance around the bedroom he shared with two other Aurors-In-Training. Thankfully, Kingsley Shacklebolt had replaced him on watch and Frank slept like a log.

The fox leapt onto his bed gracefully, and curled into a ball. It lifted its head and looked up at him. Gideon grabbed his wand from the nightstand and held it to the fox's head. He pulled it away, pulling a long silvery strand of something from it. He held it to his own head.

Immediately, the message began to play in his mind. He nodded to the fox and watched as it disappeared. Forehead wrinkling in thought, he quickly conjured his own Patronus and gave it a message for the Headmaster. Then, he stood and grabbed his cloak from the edge of his bed. It was a cold night, and he would have to sneak out of the compound before he could Apparate without his name, time of departure, and destination being logged for eventual scrutiny by one of the desk-types in Magical Law Enforcement.

_And all so I can freeze my arse off in the wood,_ he grumbled to himself.

Of course he knew it was a bit more important then that, but it didn't make him feel any better – especially once he was out in the cold.

He narrowly escaped detection by Shacklebolt by ducking behind a box marked "Wand Holsters – Holman Dormitory" and was soon out of the compound. Cursing his brother the entire time, he pulled his cloak around his body tightly and began to sprint until he was out of sight of the watch.

Once he was far enough away, he pulled his wand out of his jeans (where he continued to put it, even after Dawlish accidentally blew a buttock off during Concealment and Disguise) and Apparated to the location the fox had given him.

Like his brother, Gideon knew the spot remarkably well. However, he was not expecting to find a blood-covered witch to be running straight at him. She let out a blood-curling scream and fell backwards, her head colliding against a nearby tree with a sickening _crack!_

"Well," Gideon muttered to himself as he hurried over to check on her. "Seems the prat was right after all."

He quickly lit his wand and held it up to her body.

"Merlin," he whistled. "Someone's done a right number on her."

It was true. Scratches, bruises, scrapes, or dried blood covered almost every inch of skin he could see. What little hadn't been injured in some way, had acquired a slight blue tinge, probably from the cold. Most of the injuries looked like they could be healed with the help of a skilled MediWitch, but there were two large smears of blood on her wrists, and even splattered down the front of her rather short nightdress (what had she been thinking? That was clearly meant for summer use only) that worried him. He couldn't clearly see the injury, if there was one, and was afraid to try any spells on her.

Auror Recruits learned very little of Healing, and what they were taught came at the end, after the basic offensive and defensive magic had already been mastered. However, they all knew not to interfere with a reasonably stable patient unless there was no alternative. After having been treated to several lectures from guest Healers, Gideon now knew all the reasons why…Doing anything without "the proper knowledge" (Healer Smethwyck was a pompous little git) could have all sorts of nasty consequences. After quickly appraising the area, Gideon decided it would be best if he simply left the girl as she was and stood guard over her; he was a bit leery about trying any magic with her bleeding so heavily. There was no telling what could happen.

He would have to limit his magic use around the witch, then. His mind made up, Gideon extinguished his wand and did three things in quick succession. He summoned his Patronus and sent it to Dumbledore with as detailed a message as he could bring himself to think of. Then, he conjured a portable, water-proof fire and set it on top of the snow between him and the witch. Lastly, he cast an Impervius Charm on his cloak – he really did not want to hear what Fabian would have to say if he started walking around with a great big wet spot on his arse.

His tasks completed, he started humming a Hobgoblins song to himself and waited for his brother to arrive.

It was around three o'clock when Fabian finally showed up. He was panting slightly, and Gideon noticed a long tear in his sleeve.

"Oi," he nodded. "What happened to you?"

Fabian grimaced. "Ran into a nasty little hinkypunk down where that little bog is."

Gideon winced in sympathy. "Vicious little blighters, aren't they?"

Fabian nodded. Then, he noticed the crumpled heap of blood and robes lying not too far from the fire.

"What the bloody - " the Auror caught himself just in time. "Did you find her, then?"

Gideon chuckled mirthlessly. "In a matter of speaking, yes."

He quickly recounted his "meeting" with the witch, concluding with his decision not to use magic around her.

Fabian nodded. "Yeah, Dumbledore told me about that last bit." Off his brother's questioning look, he explained. "He sent his reply to your message to me, instead. That's how I got distracted enough to follow the hinkypunk. We're to wait here until the Harold Potter arrives to help transport her."

"When'll that be?" Gideon asked immediately. "D'you know?"

"It's supposed to be around 3:30, when he gets off duty," was the reply. "Which is in about…twenty minutes."

The two brothers sat in the snow together (Gideon noted with some satisfaction that Fabian hadn't remembered to charm his cloak) and discussed various matters they would have to deal with.

"Of course," Fabian was saying. "We're all going to have to pretend that we didn't find anything, or the Ministry will want to get their hands on her, for whatever reason."

"What is that reason, anyway? Why is Dumbledore so keen to find this girl? And why didn't he mentioned her before?"

"Dunno. S'pose we'll just have to wait and find out. Whatever the reason is, we definitely don't want the public finding out."

Gideon nodded. "Is that why we're taking her to the Potters?"

"Yeah – everyone knows what's going on at Hogwarts. You remember how fast gossip spreads there, and with all the students staying for the holidays, Dumbledore didn't want to risk it."

Gideon chuckled mirthlessly.

"No," he agreed. "I expect not – especially with half the Slytherins mysteriously choosing to stay. Mark my words, most of them have to be following Voldemort's orders."

"Or Bellatrix Lestrange's," Fabian added. "Like as not, they're probably too stupid to know who they're really helping."

"I don't know," his brother said. "That bunch are smarter then the ones who were in our years – don't you remember old what's-his-name? Snivellus or something?"

"The little greasy-haired one James and Sirius always complain about?" Fabian said slowly. "Skinny, big nose…that the one?"

"Yeah. He probably knew more curses his first year then I did in fifth."

"Well, brother, Molly always did say you were a bit slow…" Fabian let his sentence trail off with a mocking grin.

"Why, you – " Gideon exclaimed, following up with a few words that would have made their sister furious.

A few minutes later, Harold Potter Apparated in front of them.

"Do I want to know?" he asked, surveying the scene before him.

"No," Fabian said grumpily, beneath his grinning brother.

Gideon, who was sitting on top of the Auror after a brief wrestling match, twirled his wand in his hand and asked, "How do we know it's really you?"

Harold rolled his eyes and said, "My favorite candies are sherbet lemons," using the Order-approved security question.

Gideon got off his brother and stood up.

"Good to see you, Mr. Potter," he said.

"Yeah," Fabian agreed, still on the ground.

"So, how are we going to do this?" Fabian asked a few minutes later, after they had all hashed out stories to give the Ministry.

"You were right not to use magic on her," Mr. Potter said, looking at the girl critically. "I'm almost certain that there's something not quite right about her injuries. She shouldn't be alive if all that blood is hers."

Gideon shrugged. "Dumbledore will see everything sorted."

Mr. Potter gave a noncommittal grunt before returning to the matter at hand. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and withdrew three miniature broomsticks.

"Don't let James and Sirius know about this," he muttered sheepishly, enlarging the brooms. "We couldn't find brooms that'd keep up with mine on such short notice – not without alerting the Ministry."

The other two nodded.

"I'll fly in front of you," Mr. Potter continued. "You two are probably about even when it comes to flying, if what my son has to say is true. Just don't fly too fast, or she'll fall out of the stretcher."

_Stretcher?_ Gideon wondered. Then he noticed the thick piece of white cloth magically suspended between the rooms he recognized as James's and Sirius's. _Oh._

"We'll have to fly high," Fabian said, looking up at the clear sky. "There isn't much cloud cover."

Surprisingly, Mr. Potter shook his head. "No, don't worry about that. There's no one around for miles besides Abby and James. We can't risk her catching something in the cold."

That settled, the three men managed to move the stranger into the stretcher, binding her arms and legs to the broomsticks with rope. It was a lengthy process, as there was no easy way to move her without touching one wound or the other.

While they worked, Gideon asked, "Where's Sirius?"

"Eh?" Mr. Potter said absently.

"I thought he was staying with you," he explained. "But you said only Aunt Abigail and James were around."

"Oh," the older wizard said when they had finished. "Sirius is at his Uncle Alphard's funeral. It hit him hard; seems he actually liked one of his relatives besides Andromeda."

Fabian snorted. "Maybe because the Blacks disowned Alphard, too."

"That'd explain it."

It was around four o' clock when they finally took off, and almost five when they actually reached the Potter manor.

As soon as they landed, they were met outside by a very harried Abigail Potter.

"Are you alright?" she asked immediately. "Did everything go according to plan?"

"Yes, dear," Harold said, leaning down to give his wife a kiss.

Abigail sighed with relief. Not all of the tension left her, though. On the contrary, it seemed like her worry for her husband was replaced by something else. What it was, Gideon did not know. He couldn't help but feel curious, however.

Mrs. Potter ushered them inside, cautioning them all to be very quiet, as if they needed reminded.

"I had Bitsy make up a room for her," she whispered. "Dumbledore dropped by and warned me."

This time, Gideon was sure she looked anxious. _What had the Headmaster told her?_ he wondered. They reached the room before he could ask, and afterwards, he was too tired to do much more then collapse into one of the beds the Potters generously offered.

His last memory was of Mr. Potter telling him that he'd invent an excuse to tell his superiors at the Auror Training Compound. After that, there was nothing but blissful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**Fact and Fiction**

_I don't know where  
Confused about how as well  
Just know that these things will never change for us at all_

Snow Patrol, _Chasing Cars_

So far, the morning had been a nightmare for James Potter.

It all started when his mother woke him up (at the unholy hour of eight o' clock, no less) to tell him they had an "appointment" with Professor Dumbledore. That had been half an hour ago, and he was still trying to burrow under his covers.

Mrs. Potter walked into the room and wrenched the curtains of his bed open for the third time.

"James," she hissed in his ear. "_Wake up._"

He groaned. "Mum, it's the holidays. Can't it wait?"

"No," she said firmly. "Now get out of bed and put something decent on. We have to see the Headmaster."

"I swear I didn't do anything!" he mumbled, trying to cover his head with a pillow.

She snatched the pillow away. "That isn't what this is about. And keep your voice down," she added.

"Why?"

His mother didn't answer. She pulled the blankets off the bed with a flick of the wand and said, "You have ten minutes," in her most dangerous tone.

James gulped as she left the room. Muttering things that were sure to get him grounded, he shuffled over to his wardrobe and pulled out a set of robes and a reasonably clean pair of jeans.

It was going to be a long day…

No matter how many times he tried to wrap his mind around it, Albus Dumbledore was still having difficulty accepting the truth.

He considered himself a logical man, and one who was slightly cleverer then the average wizard. However, all his logic and cleverness had not prepared him for a fact that he now knew to be true.

Through the use of some highly unorthodox magic, a witch had managed to send herself back in time. This witch, whoever she happened to be, had no records in either the Muggle or Magical world. She had numerous injuries and was still unconscious, something that could, at least in part, be seen as proof that the future would not turn out well at all. _Facts._

However unusual the facts may be, he was able to cope with them rather well. Certainly, he was faring better then Professor McGonagall. When _she_ had been informed of the situation, she had informed him, Scottish brogue very much apparent, that she would spend the rest of the night with a bottle of Ogden's, and if he tried to stop her, she would "thump him."

The old wizard's lips twitched at the thought of that conversation. It took quite a bit to rattle Minerva McGonagall, but once she was…

However, that was not the problem.

He understood the facts perfectly. He could even accept them. It was the theories that were driving him mad.

Voldemort will take over the Wizarding World. The girl is a Death Eater in disguise. Something terrible enough to require blood magic will happen in the future. Someone has managed to travel several decades in time – and that person will probably have no way to return. _Theory. Theory. Theory. _

There were so many different theories running through his head, and for the first time in years, he didn't know where to begin.

"I always said you'd have done well in Ravenclaw," the Sorting Hat piped up, as if it knew how lost he felt.

Then again, it probably did.

He was seriously contemplating loaning it to Fawkes (he doubted anyone would notice a few new scratch marks) when his fireplace roared to life, recalling him to his duties.

Moments later, Abigail and James Potter stepped out of the emerald green flames, brushing soot off the front of their robes.

"Ah," he said, shifting his glasses slightly. "Abigail, James, right on time. Do take a seat."

The Potters nodded and sank into identical squishy armchairs in front of his desk. He noticed that James seemed a bit nervous, and wondered why. He'd thought the elder Potters would be above letting any information slip…

"Sir, whatever it is, I didn't do it," James burst out, as soon as he'd settled into his chair.

_So that was it_, the Headmaster thought, fighting back a chuckle.

"Mr. Potter," he began. "I have not called you here to punish you for anything. I simply wish to aid your parents in explaining something."

"Wha-?" James began. Then, he colored. "No! Er, I mean – I already know about the, er, brooms and the hoops."

Mrs. Potter coughed loudly and elbowed her son in the ribs. "That is not what he is talking about," she whispered.

James shut his mouth quickly, and tried to stop blushing. Unfortunately, it didn't work. The Headmaster didn't seem to mind, though. His lips began twitching, and his famous blue eyes became suspiciously mirthful.

"Abigail," he said, drawing Mrs. Potter's attention away from her son. "Minerva said she was available to answer some of the questions you had last night."

Of course, Minerva had said no such thing, but Albus had no doubt that she'd quickly come out of whatever Firewhiskey-induced stupor she'd elected to put herself into in order to help Abigail better understand her situation.

Once Mrs. Potter had left, he turned to her son. James was, at present, trying to figure out what was going on. Surely, it had to be important. Dumbledore was usually very busy, especially with the rumors about a new Dark Lord floating around.

At present, though, the Headmaster looked anything but busy. He was leaning back in his chair and sucking on a lemon drop quite contentedly.

"Mr. Potter," he said suddenly. "Can you please tell me the date?"

"Er, it's January 2, I think," James answered, bemused.

"And the year?"

"1972."

Dumbledore nodded as if this was all new information to him. He didn't say anything else for quite a while, forcing James to wonder if maybe the Headmaster had lost his marbles after all. He hoped not, because he didn't fancy his chances against any new Dark Lord without the older wizard on hand. After a few minutes (ten, to be exact – James kept track), Dumbledore came out of whatever reverie he'd been in.

"Tell me, James," he began, and James immediately noted the use of his first name. "What do you know of time travel?"

"Time travel?" James repeated. His eyebrows knit together.

_It isn't fair_, he thought. _Remus always kicks my arse at Magical Theory._

"It's supposed to be when a wizard – or witch," he added, thinking of Lily Evans – "travels through time with the aid of a spell or device."

Dumbledore made a gesture for him to elaborate. What else was there to say, though?

"Er, it's never been done for longer then a few minutes, although the Ministry has been experimenting with a device that may be able to send a person back for hours," he added, thankful they'd covered Time Travel in Charms just before the break started. "But people aren't sure it's a good idea, because if someone goes back too far, it might be impossible for the original timeline to exist."

"A brief, yet accurate summary," Dumbledore agreed. "Yet, you left out one very important fact from your definition. Have you ever heard of the great Egyptian wizard, Abra-Melin?"

The name seemed familiar, but James couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I see you've been…resting in Professor Binns' class. Very well. Abra-Melin was a very talented magician, one whose primary focus was on bending the fabric of the universe – time travel, if you will. He experimented with it almost his whole life, trying to figure out a way to undo the past. Eventually, his interest grew into obsession, and his methods became darker. At last, however, he unlocked the key to time travel – not for minutes, or even hours, but years.

"A generation, to be exact. Abra-Melin theorized that time travel in the conventional sense of the word was impossible. You see, a person's magical core is such a volatile thing, that ripping it from the person's natural time – the span of years in which the witch or wizard is supposed to spend their life – would destroy it, and therefore, the person who it belonged to. However, he believed that it was possible to recreate the person in a different time. That is, have a person reborn in a time some years preceding their own, with that person's magic "calibrated" to the new era.

"From his notes, it seems it took him some time to learn how this might be done. Eventually, however, he managed to discover a process that would do it. By using the blood of your parents to magically create a new body in another time, then using a complex spell to send that body through time, Abra-Melin's theory would be possible. Another spell ensured that the caster's soul would be sent to that body upon death. Of course, the plan had its drawbacks. The magic could only recreate a body in the generation directly preceding the caster's – the date of the time traveler's conception. And so it did, sending Abra-Melin back far enough for him to write his grimoire detailing the darkest of magicks."

Dumbledore sighed heavily, his piercing blue eyes fixed on James, who swallowed.

"That's – er, well not exactly nice. But what does any of this have to do with me?" he asked nervously.

"Everything," was the reply. "You see, last night a new name appeared in the Hogwarts Registry. "Hermione Jane Granger, born January 1, 1977, age eighteen." That same night, certain friends of mine found an unnamed girl in the woods not far from your house – a girl covered in blood that couldn't all be hers, with newly-healed wrists and heavily depleted magic."

The Headmaster paused and looked at him gravely.

"And on January 1, 1977, you gained a long-lost sister by the name of Hermione Jane Potter."

James said nothing for a full five minutes, something that was sure to be a first. He was in shock. Just what was Dumbledore thinking? There was no doubt about it, now, the Headmaster was definitely mental. James said as much as soon as he regained the power of speech. He said several other things, as well, none of them complementary. In fact, by the end of his tirade, he was slightly surprised he hadn't been stricken down by lightning – or, at the very least, by his Headmaster, who he was sure would be angry, no matter how bonkers said Headmaster might be.

However, Dumbledore looked calm. It was as if he'd been expecting this.

"Lemon drop?" he asked politely, holding one out. At James's incredulous "No," he continued. "Very well, then, sit down."

Before James could tell him exactly where he could shove his lemon drops and what he'd do with the chair the professor was currently gesturing at, Dumbledore had withdrawn his wand. James scarcely had time to let out an indignant "hey!" when another chair zoomed out from behind him and knocked his legs out, forcing him to either sit or land in a crumpled heap on the floor.

He chose to sit.

"I don't think you understand the importance of what I'm telling you," Dumbledore said, and suddenly James could see that, lemon drops to the contrary, he looked grave. "Whether or not the Wizarding World at large wants to admit it, Lord Voldemort happens to be a very serious threat. I shudder to think what would happen if he were to get his hands on someone with the future knowledge this young woman must possess."

The younger wizard opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off.

"There will be enough time for you to speak later. The witch of whom we speak is currently resting in your house. Unfortunately, she is still unconscious, but I have seen her, and believe me when I say there is no doubt that she has traveled here from a different time. Now, we must all take the utmost precautions in keeping her safe from the enemy. That includes placing her somewhere where she would be above suspicion – someplace where no one would guess that she was from the future.

"To tell the truth, I would not have chosen your family to be the ones to hide her. Oh, I know you all are good people, and I respect your parents very much," he added, seeing the offended look on the teenager's face. "But the fact remains that the Potters are too well known to simply pass a daughter off as having always been there. However, Fate seems to have decreed otherwise, for she was found in a place too far from any other house but yours for us to have transported her without suspicion, and so, you have a new sister."

"Won't someone notice?" James asked immediately. "Everyone knows I'm an only child."

"Your parents and I have discussed that," Dumbledore said. "You may not remember this, but you did once have another sister. She died within a few months of being born, when you were – two-years-old, I believe. Her name was – "

"Charlotte," James said suddenly. "After my grandmother. But no one ever knew about her – she was so sick when she was born, and after…"

He trailed off, suddenly understanding as he remembered the rest of the story.

Dad had only told him about his sister once, just before he entered Hogwarts. He'd been cautioned to never mention her, especially since Mum had never really gotten over her death.

His parents had been getting on in years when they had James. They weren't ancient, but they were hardly the young, hearty types James usually saw having children, like the Weasleys, for instance. They'd been even older when they had Charlotte, not quite a year later. She'd been born premature, and had been plagued by a number of problems that not even the best of Healers could remedy. Eventually, she had died of dragon pox. Charlotte had never been registered with the Ministry. At first, she'd been too sick to take out of the house, and after the dragon pox hit, there hadn't been a need.

"You want this Hermione person to replace Charlotte," he said, looking back up at the Headmaster.

"Yes," he nodded. "Your parents have already agreed to this. The Registry book has modified itself accordingly. All that remains is to secure your participation in this endeavor."

"You want me to lie." It wasn't a question.

Dumbledore nodded anyway. "You must. Keeping this girl hidden is our surest way of defeating Voldemort. She may very well have information that could help us. Even if she didn't, the consequences of letting her fall into enemy hands could be disastrous."

James was the one nodding now. Dumbledore's eyes were sharp on him, appraising.

"I am asking you honestly, James. Do you think you can do this? Do you think you can be a brother to this girl, and protect her secret above all others?"

James stopped himself from nodding again. "Sirius would have to know, and so would Remus. Sirius lives with us, and Moo – Remus is just too smart not to notice if something's up."

Dumbledore nodded. "I expected that. I will be speaking to each of them myself, of course. I notice that you did not mention Mr. Pettigrew."

James shrugged. "Peter's one of my best friends, but he can't keep a secret well. He's sort of like Hagrid," he added, thinking of the friendly gamekeeper.

"A wise decision," Dumbledore approved.

He spent the rest of the morning detailing the cover story to James, and impressing the need for secrecy. One mistake, he warned, could get people killed.

It wasn't until Dumbledore had sent Fawkes to let Mrs. Potter know the meeting was done, that James remembered something he'd wanted to ask.

"Professor," he asked. Dumbledore turned back to him. "You said that the spell to send someone back in time – " The Headmaster nodded for him to continue, so James took a deep breath and finished. " – required a blood sacrifice. Does that mean that the girl – er, Hermione, killed her parents?"

The last part came out at once, so it sounded more like "Er, my knee killer paren."

James couldn't remember a time where Dumbledore had looked so serious.

"That is something we won't know until she wakes up."

And on that disturbing note, Mrs. Potter entered the room and swept her son into the fireplace.

When they returned home, neither one of the Potters said anything.

Abigail had always been the quiet parent. She was hardly a recluse, but she was more sensitive then loud, brash Harold Potter. She understood things about people. And just then, she understood that both she and James needed more time to process things.

So she made no move to stop her son when he disappeared up the stairs. Instead, she sank into a chair at the dining room table, and indulged in a long overdue cry.

Upstairs, James was pacing the halls restlessly. Never before had he felt so glad that his house was large. The sheer number of halls, rooms, and hidden passages here and there were more than enough to distract him.

It was such an impossible scenario, that he almost laughed out loud. _Almost_. How was it that things could change so quickly? In the morning, his largest concern had been worry that his best friend would come home from the funeral feeling depressed – maybe even too depressed to help plan their last grand entrance to Hogwarts. Now, he was housing a possibly-homicidal time traveling witch who could easily end up getting his whole family killed. And on top of all that, he had to pretend said possibly-homicidal witch was his beloved long-lost sister who'd been kidnapped and presumed dead, or some other rubbish like that.

Fuming at the unfairness of it all, he kicked at a random door. It swung open slightly, but he ignored it and walked on. It wasn't until almost an hour later, when he decided to pace that hallway again, that he noticed what was inside the room.

Or, rather, _who_.

It took him a few seconds to realize that there actually was a person in the room. All he could see was a shapeless lump on the bed and a cluster of house elves scurrying about the room. Feeling curious, he stuck his head inside saw that it was, in fact, a person, and probably the person who'd been occupying his thoughts for the past few hours.

"Master is not supposed to be in here!" Bitsy squeaked, turning away from the pile of clothes she'd been about to pick up.

"It's alright," he soothed. "They already told me about her."

Bitsy was shaking her head franticly, now, and the other two house elves had joined her. One of them – he thought her name was Holly – was waving a pair of trousers in the air while she attempted to convince him to leave the room.

Wait – trousers? He looked closer. Yes, those definitely belonged to a man. Suspicions rising, he quickly scanned the room. There was a muddy trainer poking out from under the bed and a crumpled black cloak not far off, just behind Bitsy. What really gave the secret away were the strands of bright red, almost orange, hair poking above the blankets.

Eyes narrowed, James bounded across the room and tugged the covers away, much as his mother had done to him just a few hours ago.

"Fabian?" he said in surprise. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Fabian made no reply other than reaching for the blankets James was currently holding. James let them fall to the floor with a snort and reached out to punch the Auror on the shoulder.

"Wake up," he said.

Fabian opened his eyes and glared at the teenager.

"I was trying to sleep," he snapped, but he was grinning. "'Lo, Potter. How've you been?"

James grimaced. "Okay," he said. "You?"

Fabian shrugged, sitting up.

"Moody's been working us hard," was all he said, but James winced in sympathy. He'd heard all about Alastor Moody's no-nonsense methods in the Auror Department from his father.

"What are you doing here?" James asked again.

Fabian looked wary, now. "Er, me and Gid, we helped your dad out with something last night."

James nodded. Thanks to his talk with Dumbledore, he understood what that meant, but he didn't want to tell Fabian that. If he did, the older wizard might want to talk about it, and that was something James really didn't want to do. His thoughts were so muddled at the moment, that he wasn't even sure he could handle thinking about it for much longer.

"Where is your brother?" he asked, instead.

"'Cross the hall, I think," Fabian said. "I'm not sure. I passed out as soon as I got to the bed."

James nodded and sprinted across the hall. He thrust the door open and jumped onto the bed without missing a beat.

"Wake up, you prat," he shouted.

By this time, Fabian had joined them. Together, they managed to pull Gideon from the bed, despite his loud protests. Bitsy and the other house elves were looking on in horror, every now and then piping up with something like, "You is not supposed to be disturbing the guests, Master James." Unfortunately, Gideon had at least two inches on Fabian, and was stockier then James, so it took the other two wizards some time to wrestle him to the floor.

They were so busy convincing Gideon to "get off his arse" and play a game of Quidditch with them that they didn't hear the footsteps come up behind them, or the soft chuckle that followed.

"I sent Holly to fetch your brooms – I hope Sirius won't mind letting us use his," Mrs. Potter said, smiling indulgently. There was no trace of tears on her face.

"Thanks, Mum," James said from the floor, where he was helping Fabian pin his brother down.

Mrs. Potter stood in the doorway a while longer, letting the Prewetts pass her as they left for the field behind the house. When James made to move past her, too, she grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug.

"The girl is awake," she whispered in his ear. "Dumbledore is speaking with her now. Try to keep them busy for the next few hours."

He gave her a brief nod and followed Gideon and Fabian outside.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dawn points, and another day  
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind  
Wrinkles and slides. I am here  
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning._

T. S. Eliot, _East Coker_

**Chapter Four**

**Of Dead and Living**

He wondered what they would say if they knew Bellatrix had once been his favorite cousin.

They probably would not believe it, actually, he muses. Everyone he was friends with now had heard too many of his vicious, angry speeches about her over the years. _Vicious bitch_ and _ignorant harpy_, and once, even, daringly, _Death Eater whore_. He directed most of his family-related anger towards her, or his mother.

Yet, in another lifetime, where he had not known anything other than doting Purebloods and cold approval from his family, Bella had been his first real friend. Cousin, too, but more than that, for all the years that lay between them. He got no saccharine praises from her; every word she deigned to speak must be earned, good or bad.

He liked that about her. Sometimes, in the weeks between the once-routine Howlers from his mother (may she rot in hell), he found himself thinking of that, and could admit, for one furtive half-second, that it was something he respected, even if it was the antithesis of his own behavior.

Endearments and praise dripped like honey from his lips. Curses, too, came easily. He was as physical as he was verbal, never sitting still, always moving, touching, slinging an arm around a pair of widening shoulders or aiming a punch at a leanly muscled arm. He never tired of contact or conversation, of the constant reassurance that he was loved, or at least liked. That he belonged.

And yet…

Bella's grey eyes were a mirror of his own. Large, clear and sharp, framed by dark lashes against pale skin. As he got older the resemblance became more apparent; to Andromeda, to Bella, to Regulus. They were Black, all of them, flawless features and imperfect minds, no matter what colors they tried to paint themselves. Underneath the Gryffindor colors was Black blood.

Bella knew that. It was the only reason she had turned up at Alphard's funeral, snuck away from one of Uncle Cygnus's family dinners and her insufferable new fiancé and stood in front of the grave with him.

"Come back," she said.

And for just one second he had wanted to. He had looked into her (_his_) eyes and seen in them mirrored her love and her pride and her need for her favorite to come back to the fold. She had seen him wavering, he could tell by the foreignly familiar spark of triumph that flashed in her eyes. Her hand had reached up to cup his face, and he had been recalled back to himself by the cold press of her ring against his skin.

"Never," he said, and walked away.

Mr. Potter looked at him a little oddly when he Apparated in front of the Manor with his once-Black robes turned suddenly scarlet, but he did not say anything.

"Hey, Mr. Potter," Sirius said easily, and wondered when it had become so easy to pretend he did not care about his royally fucked up family.

"Sirius," Mr. Potter nodded.

The older man waited until they were inside, with the door firmly closed behind them, before he embraced him.

"Welcome home," he said.

Sirius tried not to let on how happy hearing those words made him. Sirius being Sirius, though, it was quite impossible.

"Thanks. It's good to be back. Somehow, the funeral wasn't all that fun."

Mr. Potter raised an eyebrow. "Funny, that," he said mildly. "But I've got a bit of news for you that might cheer you up. Of course, you could also end up feeling less than chuffed, but –" He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say "Hey, what can you do?"

"And this news would be…" Sirius trailed off, and gave the other wizard his most charming grin.

"Ah, I think I'll let James explain that to you. I've got to be at the office in an hour."

Sirius was surprised. "Now? But it's almost dinner."

"I know," Mr. Potter grimaced. "Abby's none too pleased with me, but times being what they are – "

He let the sentence hang. There was no need to verbalize those thoughts, when the darkness was already apparent around them.

"Anyway," he said. "James and the Prewett boys are somewhere about here, just thought I should warn you."

"The Prewetts? What are they doing here? Shouldn't they be going back to the Ministry with you?"

"Yes. I'm going to collect them now. But they needed a bit of a lie-in today, after – Well, I'm sure James will explain everything."

Having grown up a Black, Sirius knew when someone was signaling an end to the conversation. That did not always mean he would go along with that, but then, he did have a special place in his heart for the Potters.

They stayed silent until they reached the end of the Manor, where the loud voices and louder laughter more than made up for any lack of speech from the two of them.

Sirius saw James sitting on the floor with two redheads he remembered were called Gideon and Fabian Prewett, though who was who, he had no idea. They may have been Pureblood, but the Prewetts, loud and rambunctious and steadfastly Gryffindor, had never been on Walburga Black's list of People Who Were People. Rather said, now that he came to think of it. They looked like the sort of people he could get to like.

_Which is why Mother had "no opinion" of them_, he thought.

"Come along you overgrown teenagers," Mr. Potter said, rolling his eyes affectionately at the little party spread out across his dining room floor. "We've got to be off before Moody comes after the lot of us. And leave the Flaming Peppermints behind," he added as the taller of the two suddenly belched a plume of fire.

They grumbled and made a show of shaking all the brightly wrapped candies from their robes, but when Mr. Potter turned away to head for the fireplace, Sirius saw James hurriedly shove them back into the other wizards' hands.

The Prewetts Flooed to the Ministry with James's father, and then the two Marauders were left alone.

"Padfoot," James grinned.

He pushed aside a pile of candy wrappers and a discarded copy of the Holyhead Harpies team calendar (Lettie Brownbatt winked at them from the bikini-covered pages of July) with his foot. Sirius plopped down next to him, making sure to push his hair out of his eyes in one of those carelessly graceful gestures that so enthralled the female population of Hogwarts.

James rolled his eyes and smacked him on the nose with a Sugar Quill. The end broke off, and Sirius caught it on his tongue.

"Thanks, mate," he said, grinning around the sudden treat.

James snorted. "You're insufferable, you are. Don't know why we put up with you."

"It's because of my dashing good looks, of course."

"Yeah, that's real helpful. Exactly what we need, some mad idiot who's prettier than half the witches in our year."

"I am not _pretty_." This was said with as much disgust as he could fit into one word.

James was not impressed. "Yeah, and that's why that bloke down at Hogsmeade tried to pick you up last month."

"He was drunk. And he could've just been a pansy!"

"Which is why he made sure to mention that he didn't mind flat-titted girls."

"Exactly."

"Does that mean I should be worried about you trying to bugger me in my sleep?"

Sirius smacked him around the head.

"Fine, I'll stop," James said, grinning. "How was the funeral?"

Sirius's face darkened. "Fine."

James raised an eyebrow, looking uncannily like his father had a few minutes before.

"That it? Normally, you'd have something a bit more…elaborative to say. 's not like you to mince words."

"Bellatrix was there." He slipped in the middle of the word, had to remind himself to add on the ending. _Wouldn't do to act like she's family._

"Ah."

Sirius grunted. James looked around shiftily, and once he was sure his mother was not going to suddenly appear (ever since the two wizards had gotten their licenses the summer before, Apparating in the house was strictly forbidden, so there was one worry gone), he pulled a small bottle of something golden out of his pocket.

"Here," he said, thrusting it into Sirius's hands.

The long fingers fumbled for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden action. James watched him for a moment, the sight as familiar to him as his own reflection. Slashes of skin like snow as Sirius's fingers curve around the bottle, unscrew the top; a flash of red as it disappears between his lips. James wondered, not for the first time, what it might have been like if things were different, if it were him who was blessed with Sirius's "dashing good looks." Would Ev- Lily have gone for him if he looked like a Black instead of a Potter? Sure, Sirius and Lily got on about as well as oil and water, but that was because Sirius didn't go for girls like her (girls with half a brain, Remus might have said), and besides, he'd never known Sirius to get turned down before.

Not that he was a troll, or anything, far from it. Thanks to Quidditch he at least had some fairly respectable muscles, and certainly none of the pudge that Peter carried around his waist. Still, it was hard to have a best mate who looked like Sirius and flirted like Sirius and managed to be so damn careless about it all.

"So, your dad said something about news," Sirius said, interrupting his thoughts. "Sounded right shifty about it, too."

James firmly ended his previous line of thought. There was no use moping over what couldn't be, he supposed. Besides, if he kept it up he might start sounding like a girl, or worse, Peter. Not that Peter was a bad sort, or anything, but he did have his whiny moments.

_And the Black looks come with a price_, he thought. _I'd much rather be a Potter with messy hair and eyes like a bat._

"Eh?" he said absently.

"The news," Sirius said slowly, around sips of Firewhiskey. "Your dad. You explaining it."

"Right." Well, that was certainly enough to tear him away from thoughts of wooing Lily Evans with his best friend's face and only slightly-mussed hair. "That's a long story, that."

Sirius waited. James did not say anything.

"You're going to need the bottle back, aren't you?"

"Probably."

"Wanker," Sirius grumbled as he passed James the Firewhiskey. "Got any more of this stuff?"

James shook his head. "Nah, we went through most of it after Christmas. And then we did the one that Moony sent us for Christmas on New Year's."

"Bugger."

"Indeed."

Sirius waited until James had had a fortifying swallow or three from the bottle before prompting him for the story again. This time James responded, hiccupping small bursts of smoke as the explanation went on, until Sirius was left staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

James took one look at him and shook his head. He took the neck of the bottle and angled it above Sirius's mouth, before pouring in a good measure of Firewhiskey.

Sirius coughed and sputtered, having apparently tried to swallow it and spit it out at the same time. The end result was that most of it ended up going through his nose.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted. "That burns!"

What followed was a string of expletives that had Mrs. Potter placing a Sonorus Charm on her voice just so that she could tell them to "stop using that language right now" all the way from her bedroom upstairs at the far end of the Manor.

James roared with laughter the whole time, but eventually he pulled himself together enough to conjure Sirius a glass of water. Sirius glowered at him as he drank it.

"So you've got a possible Death Eater from the future as your sister," Sirius finally said. "And I thought my family was bad."

"They are."

"True," Sirius inclined his head at that point. "So where is she now?"

James shrugged. "Hogwarts. Mum shoved her into the fireplace the second she woke up…at 4:30."

"Damn, that was only an hour before I got here," Sirius complained. "I could've gotten to see her. I would've been able to tell you if she was Narcissa's spawn or something."

"In the morning," James clarified. "'spect Dumbledore probably had one interesting wake up call."

Sirius snorted. "Knowing him, he probably predicted it. He's got a lot more Sight then that batty old hag who teaches Divination."

"Nah, Dumbledore isn't a Seer. He's just really good at figuring things out."

"They should offer that as a class instead."

"Did I just hear the great Sirius Black admit that he could use an extra class?"

"Of course not. I was talking about for Remus – you know how he loves that sort of thing."

"Right."

"Feel like going down to the village for a bit?" Sirius asked.

James shrugged. "Sure. I'd fancy a chance to replenish our stores, maybe grab a pint at the pub…but let's finish this bottle first."

Sirius grinned and passed the bottle back.

Hermione Granger was not having nearly so pleasant a time.

In her time, she had always known that Dumbledore could be a bit scary. He was the wizard who defeated Grindelwald, someone that Voldemort feared. It stood to reason that he could be a formidable person when the mood took him.

However, knowing a thing in your head and experiencing it firsthand were entirely different things.

She had never seen him look this fierce. Not angry, per say, but dangerous. As if, despite his wrinkles and the spangled blue robes, he would not hesitate to do away with her if he thought he had to do so.

Unbidden, a memory of a magically copied letter rose to the surface of her mind, loopy writing spelling out in clear letters, "for the greater good."

_That was a long time ago_, she reminded herself.

Dumbledore sat and surveyed her from behind his half-moon spectacles. The sight is so familiar she wants to cry, although the look in his eyes as he does so is definitely not. He opens his mouth to speak, and she does something that only two years of desperation could have forced her to do.

She interrupts the Headmaster.

"You already know who I am," she said. "You know that I'm from the future, and since you're looking decidedly unfriendly right now, you probably know how I got here. Definitely know how I got here," she corrected herself. "You were the one who gave me the books that showed me how it was done."

A look of curiosity flits across his face for the briefest of moments.

"And now you want answers," she finished.

"Rather succinctly put, but yes, that is the gist of it," Dumbledore agreed, and while he does not look nearly as affectionate as she remembered, he was, at least, not looking at her like she disgusted him.

"I won't tell you everything," she cautioned. "There are some things better left unsaid."

"Too true. The future is an unstable thing. It does not do to know too much about it."

There was so much subtext in that statement, it made her head spin.

"Nothing is constant," she shot back. "Time moves forward. What was once the future is now the present, or the past."

To her surprise, he favors her with a smile, benign and benevolent as anything frozen in her memory.

"You're well-versed in Magical Theory, I take it," he said. "At least I know the standards of education at Hogwarts will not drop in the near future."

Hermione is sorely tempted to say something about Dolores Umbridge.

"You'd be surprised," she mutters instead. After all, if she did her job right, Voldemort will never rise again to be ignored by the Ministry.

She ignored the raised eyebrow. "How much do you know about Voldemort's Horcruxes?"

The eyebrow rose higher. She kept ignoring it, even though her inner Prefect was screaming at her to show a little more respect. They were at war, here in a time that was not her own, and in the one she had left. Every word wasted could be another life that should have been spared.

Hermione suddenly thinks of the three portraits that have not yet joined the others on the wall – Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, and of course, the man sitting in front of her.

"Horcruxes in the plural form?" Dumbledore asked.

He was appalled. They had all been, at first. That was before such things became normal.

"You are in the middle of a war, Headmaster," she said. "With the second-Darkest wizard known to mankind. He will take every step possible to retain that position. He's on that path right now."

"And you have come here to stop him."

She shook her head. "No. I'm here to stop the person who will do that."

Dumbledore's eyes blazed. He was on the verge of Petrifying her, at the very least.

"The person who will stop him is the Darkest wizard the world will ever see." She hates herself for what she feels when she says that; the guilt and the sadness and the regret. What had happened to them all? "And it will all be because of Voldemort and his blasted Horcruxes."

It was strangely comforting to her that she was not so far gone as to not blush when swearing in front of the Headmaster.

"I am afraid that I cannot help you if I do not understand the whole story," Dumbledore prompted.

Hermione pursed her lips and continued. "Voldemort traveled farther on the path to immortality than almost anyone. In my time, he managed to split his soul into seven pieces. Five of them went into objects that he considered to be of great worth. One remained in his body. The other – "

She trailed off. "I suppose I should start from the beginning, though, shouldn't I? But where is the beginning? Here, in this office, about ten years ago? At a Muggle orphanage in the '20s? Or when you went to pick up a boy named Tom Riddle and found him with a wardrobe full of stolen trophies?"

Dumbledore does not question how she knows these things, and he does not stop her from rambling to herself.

"The beginning is exactly where we choose to place it," he said.

She met his eyes, brown against brightest blue, and resumed her explanation.

"Then it begins with a job interview," she says. "Between you and a slightly batty woman named Sibyll Trelawney."

The wizened old wizard across the desk from her does not interrupt her. He sits quite still, his eyes conveying patience, and she finally understands just how it is that so many people ended up telling this man their deepest secrets. She had always wondered how Snape of all people could have brought himself to confess his undying love for a married woman to his old Headmaster. He was just that sort of person. She wished she had gotten the chance to figure that out in her own time, without a cloud of fear and suspicion lying between them.

"We destroyed six Horcruxes, and then Harry went off to battle Voldemort. We should have known that it was too easy, that victory couldn't be achieved after barely two months of open war. But, then, none us thought there might be a seventh Horcrux, did we?

"It was all so wonderful for a time. There were a few weeks where the world was just…perfect, for most people. Everyone was so busy celebrating that no one noticed what was happening to Harry. We all wrote the sudden bursts of temper to mood swings, or having what we'd done sink in.

"We were all pretty stupid.

"It was sometime in the middle of November when Harry left. Ron and I wouldn't have noticed a thing, except we were still so used to keeping watch by the door. He set the Caterwauling Charm off on his way out. It woke us up, but…

"There's really no excuse, I suppose. We both felt that something wasn't right, but neither one of us was brave enough to actually say anything. Who wanted to set the "Savior of the Wizarding World" off on another one of his screaming fits at two in the morning?

"So we let him go, believed him when he told us not to wait up, that he would be back in the morning. It was Harry, after all. Things change, but not that much." As she spoke, Dumbledore had the feeling that she had said those words to someone else before. Perhaps a doubting friend with red hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose, he thought shrewdly.

"We didn't hear anything for a few days. And then the news – a Muggle family newly-returned from their holiday in Majorca had just been murdered in Surrey. It was definitely the work of a Dark wizard. And after all the effort that had gone into preserving the secrecy of Harry's whereabouts during his child, not many people made the connection between the Dursley family of Number Four, Privet Drive, and Harry Potter, the Chosen One.

"But some of us – all that was left of the Order and the DA – knew. We tried convincing people to go into hiding, tried finding Harry, tried to believe that the rumors of a new Dark Lord rising were just rumors and nothing more. But it didn't work. It was Harry, and yet, it wasn't Harry.

"He wasn't the Harry that I knew. I still don't know exactly how it had happened, but it was like Harry and Voldemort merged. They weren't two separate entities sharing a connection anymore, but…"

For the first time, Dumbledore interrupted her.

"_In essence divided_," he murmured.

Hermione nodded grimly. "I never felt less happy about figuring something out," she said. "Harry picked up where Voldemort left off. The Ministry was still a shambles, and none of the Death Eaters had even gone to trial yet, so he still had a loyal crop of followers. He managed to break them all out of Azkaban and have the Ministry under control before anyone even admitted that it could be Harry behind all of it. Voldemort alone had been bad enough, but with his cunning and cruelty and Harry's courage…

"It was disaster. Most people hadn't listened to us when we told them to go into hiding, we only just barely made it ourselves. The Muggle-borns were rounded up within a week. Anyone with a useful talent was Imperiused and put to work. The rest…well, I'm sure you can imagine.

"We split up. With things as bad as they were, there was no hope of a second Resistance unless we had outside help. Staying together made it that much easier for Harry to pick us off, especially once the Taboo was in place. If anyone got pissed and let Harry's name slip, or Voldemort's, it was safer that only one of us died and not all."

She swallowed heavily. One did not need magic to know that particular theory had been put to the test many times.

"I checked in on my parents when I could. At first I thought it was safer to avoid them altogether; to wipe their memories and send them away again, where no one could hurt them. But Harry found them at the airport. He'd tipped off the Muggle Minister and told him to have an eye out for anyone who looked like them, and, well, no one had thought to warn Downing Street that the Savior of the Wizarding World wasn't what we'd thought he was.

"He didn't do anything to them, though. Just waited at the house with them until I showed up, sure that they were dead already. And then he asked me to join him.

"I feel like I should have said yes."

She stopped there. Dumbledore seemed to understand that no amount of prompting would get the rest of the tale from her, and after all she had said, he could not conscience using Veritaserum on her. She had proven herself to be no threat to the school. The feathery-light probe of Legilimency that he subconsciously used at the start of any conversation ("testing the waters" Bathilda Bagshot had once complained good-naturedly) confirmed that she was not lying, and that she had no skill with Occlumency whatsoever.

He was distracted from his musings as she pulled out her wand and pointed it at her temple. He felt a brief irrational jump of alarm, the need of any teacher to protect a student coming to the fore, but then relaxed as he saw what she was doing.

Silvery blue mist coalesced around the tip of her wand as she pulled it away. He conjured a flask for her and she deposited the memories.

"I don't think I'm going to be telling anyone about how I got here," she said quietly. "But I thought that there were people who would like to know. To study it. Time travel can be a fascinating subject, you know."

He nodded once and pocketed the flask. Moments later, there was a small _pop! _as a house elf appeared carrying a tray full of sandwiches and two glasses of pumpkin juice.

"Let us eat before I explain the arrangements that have been made for you."

Hermione nodded and tucked into a dainty turkey and cheese sandwich, crust-less, and cut into a diamond shape. It was funny how amazing something like a sandwich could be after spending the better part of a year in hiding or on the run.

While they had lunch, they talked about more mundane topics. The latest issue of _Transfiguration Today_ (Hermione could freely participate in this topic, having memorized each issue back-to-front); the Gryffindor-vs.-Ravenclaw Quidditch match coming up, and how "young Professor McGonagall" was being delightfully shameless about her enthusiasm for the game (and the fact that all of the classes that included one of the Gryffindor players were mysteriously lacking in homework from the lesson plans she had turned in to the Headmaster); Muggle literature (who knew Dumbledore was a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald?); and a thousand other things. Hermione almost felt guilty about it. Here was the opportunity that Harry had always wanted, but it was her sitting across the desk from the silver-haired headmaster.

_Don't think like that. Just remember, Harry won't need this opportunity when you're done. He'll have parents and grandparents and a godfather…_

The day passed with surprising speed. Hermione found that she enjoyed speaking to the Headmaster, something she could now find rather amusing when she reflected on her one-time shyness around him.

_Nothing like a few near-death experiences and a dash of time travel to place things in perspective._

She only barely managed to cover her astonishment at the lengths the Headmaster had gone to protect her, especially when he called Abigail Potter into the office and she realized that the woman who had practically shoved her into the Floo pot was none other than Harry's grandmother.

"Hello, Albus," Abigail said as she walked in. "Hermione."

There was just a touch of awkwardness about the way she pronounced Hermione's name, tongue fumbling over the unfamiliar syllables, that put the other witch at ease. Apparently, Mrs. Potter was just as overwhelmed as she was, even if the older woman seemed more adept at hiding it.

"Shall I leave you two alone for a time?" the Headmaster offered, already rising from his seat.

Mrs. Potter nodded once. She waited until Dumbledore had left before speaking.

"I'm sure that this must all be very hard on you," she began. "And would just like you to know that my family and I will try our best to make this as easy for you as we possibly can."

Hermione was taken aback. "You don't have to do that." Then, in response to Mrs. Potter's skeptical expression – "No, honestly, you don't. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I – That is to say, I have always known that if it ever came to this, it wouldn't be comfort I was looking for."

"That doesn't mean you have to be miserable," Mrs. Potter said. "Far from it."

"Doesn't it? You don't – you _can't_ understand what it's like. There are just so many things for me to do…"

"Including pretending you belong here," the other witch cut across firmly. "Miss Gra- Pot- er, may I call you Hermione?"

"Of course."

"Well, Hermione, you seem to be forgetting one very important thing. I can't say I know what plans you and the Headmaster have cooked up, and frankly, I don't want to. Albus's schemes tend to go over my head a lot of the time. But I have had it made clear to me that in order for anything to work, you have to be above suspicion, and that means I have to not just act like your mother, but be her."

Her mother was dead. The words were running through Hermione's head like a mantra even as she warmed just the slightest bit at the realization of what Mrs. Potter was offering her.

"Why are you saying this?" she said, the words coming out sharper than she'd intended.

"I've always wanted a daughter," the other witch replied. "I had one once, long ago, but she is lost to me now, the same way your parents are lost to you. I think we could both use a chance to start over, don't you?"

Hermione mulled over her words for quite a while. Somehow, Mrs. Potter instinctively knew not to break her silence. It was a lot to ask, especially of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger.

And yet…

Her old life was lost to her. Even her name would not stay the same. Hermione Granger did not exist, and neither did her parents. It was rather ironic, really, that this was the way it should happen. Before she had come to Hogwarts, she had read all about another Potter, and dreamed of meeting him and falling in love and bearing his name in an entirely different way.

Irony was the currency of life, though, or so it seemed.

Quite a while passed before Hermione looked up. She did not say anything, only smiled – a trembling, fragile thing. But it was enough.

a/n: Ok, so this chapter got its PG-13 rating from the first few paragraphs alone, but before anyone starts complaining, I'd like to point out that said paragraphs were from the perspective of a teenage boy. More importantly, a teenage _Sirius_, which really makes all the difference. Much as I love the Hermione!angst, I also love the wonderful, irresponsible, craziness with just a side dish of arrogance and insecurity that is the Marauders at Hogwarts…or on vacation from Hogwarts. And sorry about the giant exposition dump, but there was some information that just had to be known before we could move on, and it was a real pain to write, so I tried to work it in as well as possible and break it up with some Sirius- and Potter-filled fun. I hope you had fun with this chapter, and sorry it took so long to get out…I pretty much died of DH anticipation/theory-making/reading Mugglenet editorials until…now, actually. And since I'm still halfway through re-re-reading DH, I guess I'm still sort of in the midst of book 7 insanity. Oh, and since new information now states that the Potter family lived in Godric's Hollow, I'm going to put the Manor as being near it…which is to say, miles away, but the closest Wizarding residence nonetheless. And also, James now has an aunt (married, and therefore no longer a Potter) who lives in "the village", just to be on the canon-safe side (even thought this whole fic is pretty much a gaping hole in the actual canon timeline.)

The title and the quote are, surprisingly, not from a Snow Patrol song (so much for my little theme), but from a T. S. Eliot poem which I've loved…pretty much forever, really. To tell the truth, the quote was originally going to be:

_You say I am repeating  
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.  
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,  
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,  
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.  
In order to arrive at what you do not know  
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.  
In order to possess what you do not possess  
You must go by the way of dispossession.  
In order to arrive at what you are not  
You must go through the way in which you are not.  
And what you do not know is the only thing you know  
And what you own is what you do not own  
And where you are is where you are not. _

But that was just too long. Still, if you haven't already, read that poem! – stops shameless poetry-nerding -

**_PLEASE REVIEW!_**


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